


Giving It Up for You

by dawnperhaps



Series: Alpha Beta Chi [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alpha Beta Chi AU, F/F, Fraternities & Sororities, Genderbending, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnperhaps/pseuds/dawnperhaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring break is meant to be a vacation, but relaxation doesn’t come as easily to Enjolras.  Mentions of past alcoholism and recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving It Up for You

Halfway through their first night out in Charleston, it becomes very clear to Enjolras that she’s the third wheel at her table.

Combeferre is working her way through her second glass of wine the size of a honeydew melon and Courfeyrac is the only one drinking the pitcher of margarita they ordered.  It’s half empty.  They’re slowly sliding closer together and Enjolras tries not to draw attention to it because Combeferre is easily spooked away from public displays of affection, and Courfeyrac’s disdainful glare is something Enjolras tries to avoid if she can manage it.  She suspects, however, judging by the heavy flush across Combeferre’s nose and cheekbones and her heavy-lidded and uncharacteristically unfocused eyes, that she’s had enough wine to cuddle a bit.

The café isn’t crowded despite the promise of live music and cheap alcohol on the sign outside.  The easy tempo and gravelly voice of the singer should be relaxing, but Enjolras is a little distracted.  She’s out of her element; she’s always out of her element on these spring break trips because Courfeyrac always chooses the location and it’s never anything Enjolras would consider a vacation.  Enjolras isn’t a huge fan of the beach scene.  There’s still sand stuck in all the creases and corners of her boots – “You brought your  _boots_  to the ocean?  Do you even  _own_  flipflops?” – and her toes have felt funny since they took their first stroll next to the crashing waves.  She likes her friends, though, and Feuilly and Combeferre seem much more relaxed than usual and Jehan’s hideous floral print maxi dresses and paisley neck scarves almost look appropriate on the boardwalk.  Joly begged off for what Enjolras can only assume was a preemptive sunburn and Bossuet and Musichetta stayed behind, as well.  This meant they were all able to fit in the sorority’s van, which saved them the airfare from New York but not exposure to Jehan’s horrible taste in music.

Surrendering to distraction, Enjolras’ eyes find Bahorel near the door, leaning close to the bouncer.  They appear to be deep in conversation, but Enjolras can’t discern whether Bahorel is attempting to go home with him or exchange weight lifting tips.  Jehan and Feuilly are behind her, having a conversation that Enjolras can’t quite make out.  Finally, she finds the final table they’d commandeered, and her gaze settles on dark hair and even darker eyes.

Enjolras has been making a conscious effort to be more observant about Grantaire.  She’s always fancied herself to be a connoisseur of potential, easily recognizing it and drawing it out in people.  She sees passion and drive as easily as one might see a person caught on fire, but there are other things, more superficial things.  Those things often escape her notice, even when it comes to the small number of people who share her bed.  It’s Courfeyrac who points out when Grantaire’s shoulders are tense, when her head is bowed just a little lower, and – before the incident – when she would make her way farther and faster through a flask compared to a typical night.

Enjolras tends to dim in places like this – dark music halls full of leisurely dancing and low talking, nights full of revelry instead of revolution – but it suits Grantaire.  Severe inky curls and sharp lines – her smirk, her tight jaw, the not-so-delicate but oh-so-judgmental arch of an eyebrow – soften in the dull light reflecting off the stage, her gaze fixed on the guitarist with a calm sort of intensity.  Her palm is pressed up against a cup of coffee, but it looks untouched.  Enjolras scans the other drinks at the table, but Julian is nursing a diet coke and looking incredibly uncomfortable while Aurelie drinks a hot chocolate and chats him up – probably about Alain.  Enjolras tries to let that settle her anxiety, but she really wants to leave and take Grantaire with her.

“No, we’re going.  I’ll sit with Thenardier and Pontmercy.  Julian didn’t want to come on vacation with a bunch of strangers anyway, so it’ll be better if he doesn’t have to deal with the bigger personalities in the group,” the dark haired girl had said earlier in the night, and Enjolras knew she probably qualified as one of those bigger personalities.  She wasn’t so certain that Grantaire didn’t.  But Grantaire had smiled when she reached out to smooth the crease between Enjolras’ eyebrows.  “If I’m not okay, I’ll leave.”

She seems fine.  She’s certainly not on fire, but Enjolras would swear she glows.

“ _Enjo and R, kissin’ in the hall_ ,” Courfeyrac sings suddenly, loud and happy in the way only Courfeyrac can sound, an invisible microphone lifted to her lips and her other hand flying up to keep her knitted beret on her head as she throws it back, as if she’s singing heavy metal instead of a childish rhyme.  Enjolras hears Jehan and Feuilly giggle somewhere behind her.  “ _H-A-T-E sex against a wall_.”

Despite herself, Enjolras turns again to make sure Grantaire didn’t hear, but she’s just exchanging sympathetic looks with an increasingly more miserable looking Julian while Aurelie gestures wildly with her hands.

“Stop it,” the blonde says when she turns back to Courfeyrac, who looks very smug now that she has Combeferre giggling into her neck.

“That was clever as fuck,” Courfeyrac says.  “‘Ferre, tell her that was clever.”

Combeferre looks up sleepily and says, “Mm, I always think you’re clever.”  Enjolras suddenly wishes she would have called the two of them out on cuddling.

“You are unbearable,” she complains.  “Meddlers, the both of you.”

“We’re concerned,” Combeferre exclaims at the same time Courfeyrac says, “We’re hilarious!”  And Enjolras has to smile because she’ll be damned if that doesn’t sum up their personalities perfectly.  And she loves them even when they’re being ridiculous.  She knows Combeferre will apologize for the both of them tomorrow, anyway.  Unnecessarily, of course, but she will.

“You know, in all the trip planning, I almost forgot to congratulate you on your internship,” Enjolras mentions, sincere even though she’s eager to draw the conversation away from herself.  She smiles when Courfeyrac’s smug expression fades to shock.  “NBC is a big deal.”

Courfeyrac rounds on Combeferre, who is apparently not drunk enough to be immune from embarrassment.  She seems to shrink in her seat as Courferyrac snaps, “You little snitch!”

“You didn’t tell me not to tell Enjolras.”

“I said to keep it on the DL!”

Combeferre snorts and squares her shoulders rather clumsily, a poor imitation of her normal stance when she’s about to say something smart and practical.  “Well, that’s ridiculous, because you should be really proud of yourself.  I was proud of you and I wanted to brag about it, so I did.”

“It’s just an assistant position,” Courfeyrac argues, making a show of rolling her eyes.  “I didn’t want everyone to get all worked up about it.  I mean, who even cares about the girl grabbing coffee for the news anchors?”

“I care,” Combeferre answers simply.  Courfeyrac’s resulting smile, small and hidden in her glass, tells Enjolras that she might have only been trying to hear the other girl say it.

Enjolras stands when the next song ends and tells Combeferre to get them both back to the hotel safe.  She can practically feel Courfeyrac’s eyes following her as she makes her way over to Grantaire’s table, but she doesn’t look back, especially not when Grantaire’s eyes snap up to meet hers.  She always looks so surprised to see Enjolras approaching her, as if they don’t regularly fall asleep together and wake each other up with kisses.

“Ready?” Enjolras asks after a brief nod in greeting to Aurelie and Julian.

“Always ready,” Grantaire says lightly.  Enjolras slips her hand in the other girl’s when she rises, and almost misses the way Grantaire looks down to make sure the pressure is what she thinks it is.

They wander wordlessly to the beach.  Enjolras hates that it’s still like this sometimes, sitting in the heavy silence that they once filled up with thoughtless cruel words.  Grantaire appreciates silence more than Enjolras does.  It makes her itch. 

It doesn’t help that the blonde’s phone hasn’t been dim since they left the music hall.  Courfeyrac has the somewhat remarkable but also incredibly annoying skill of being able to tend to her own love life and everyone else’s at the same time.

[3/21, 23:13:36] COURF: get it guuuuurl

[3/21, 23:25:57] COURF: tell her u think her outfit is nice, or her hair

[3/21, 23:26:36] COURF: u never say stuff like that, ladies love that shit

[3/21, 23:27:14] COURF: i told ferre i liked how she curled her hair last week and she was whistling a disney song for the rest of the day

[3/21, 23:35:40] COURF: i mean i really did like it, though, DONT LIE OR ANYTHING

[3/21, 23:38:11] COURF: tell her u like her ass then i know thats true

[3/21, 23:42:30] COURF: did u tell her

[3/21, 23:43:56] COMBEFERRE: I took her phone away and put it in my bra. Have fun! ;) ;) ;)

[3/21, 23:44:22] SENT: You say that like that’s going to keep her away from her phone.

[3/22, 00:00:13] COMBEFERRE: Hmm, touché.

[3/22, 00:01:20] COMBEFERRE: I put it in my bio book.

[3/22, 00:01:49] SENT: Why did you bring your bio book to South Carolina?

[3/22, 00:01:55] SENT: Why do you carry it in your purse?

[3/22, 00:02:10] COMBEFERRE: That doesn’t sound a lot like gratitude.

[3/22, 00:02:21] COMBEFERRE: And don’t pretend like your LSAT test prep book isn’t in your bag.

Enjolras turns her phone off after that, only to turn it back on a few minutes later when she gets inexplicably worried that an accident might happen and she’ll need to be reached.  Grantaire watches this out of the corner of her eye and smiles to herself as if she understands everything running through Enjolras’ head.  Enjolras isn’t certain that she doesn’t, and she’s even less certain that she likes it.  It feels one-sided.  Despite everything, Enjolras still can’t seem to weasel her way in through Grantaire’s exterior.  She’s full of cracks, but none of them are big enough to crawl through, and Enjolras is terrified that she’ll miss something despite her efforts to be more observant, just as she missed all the signs the first time.

There are days when they can bicker like they always did, easy and fast, like nothing has changed.  But more often that not, there are times like tonight, when all Enjolras can think about is the day Grantaire came back from the emergency medical center, looking small and sober and uncharacteristically terrified.  Enjolras had holed up in her room, feeling angry and confused, until Feuilly had used the emergency key in the pot by the fireplace and pulled Enjolras into Grantaire’s bedroom, quietly murmuring reassurance and encouragement to the blonde as they drifted down the hall.  Enjolras remembers her hands shaking between Feuilly’s steady fingers.  She remembers finding Joly and Courfeyrac sitting beside Grantaire’s bed, reading the pamphlets Grantaire brought home with her and humming a quiet song, respectively.  More than anything, she remembers the sickeningly distressed noise that escaped Grantaire’s throat when she caught sight of Enjolras in the doorway.

“Don’t,” she’d begged, but Feuilly kept pulling Enjolras into the room despite the fact that Enjolras felt like a lead weight, frozen in place by that horrible sound.  “Please, please,  _please_.  Not now.”

“She’s not going to yell at you,” Feuilly promised, and Enjolras hadn’t been sure that was true.  But then Joly was mechanically explaining withdrawal and alcoholism, and they’d always known on some level, but it was the first time the words had ever been used aloud, and Enjolras felt her world narrow and constrict, her vision tunneling to the miserable creature huddled in the bed in front of her, and suddenly she was very sick of dancing around the thing between them.

She’d spent the next few days standing beside Combeferre as she spoke with every dean in the school and the next few nights holding Grantaire’s curly hair back while she retched into the toilet.  Somewhere between the AA meetings and the crying and the midterms, something fresh and green began to grow.

“You’re quiet.”

Grantaire’s voice draws Enjolras out of her memories, her toes curling in the sand as if to ground herself.  The beach is empty and they curl up just far enough away from the sea to avoid getting wet.  The moon hangs over the horizon and lights up a nearby pier.  Grantaire looks softened in that light, just as she did in the cafe, and Enjolras so desperately doesn’t want to fight for once.

“I can be,” she answers.

“You’re upset.”

“No.”

“Worried, then?”

Enjolras sighs, suddenly and inexplicably frustrated.  “I can be.”  She changes the subject.  ”You didn’t drink your coffee.  Was it bad?”

“No, it was fine.  I’ve just been… substituting, you know, and I feel like I haven’t blinked in three days,” Grantaire says, although her voice holds none of the energy caffeine might normally give a person.

“We could start buying decaf.”

“Yeah, but then what would I use to supplement my personality?” she quips with a crooked little grin.  ”Think of all the flawed mortality you’d be subjected to.”  The air seems to be sucked away with the next wave.

“Why do you always say things like that?” Enjolras asks quietly, feeling ridiculously inadequate.  Grantaire looks surprised and Enjolras just shakes her head, staring out at the rolling water, little hypnotizing white peaks against a black sky.

“You think I’m some sort of angel to have to worship,” she continues.  “You’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve me.  You never tell me when you’re upset, you never let me see your artwork, you never accept any of the praise I’ve tried to offer you.  You never even let me go down on you.  I’m not an idiot.  I see what’s going on.”

“You’re upset that I won’t let you go down on me?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras can tell she’s trying to mock her, but she ignores the tone.

“Do you think I’m confused?  Have you ever known me to go after something or stick with something I wasn’t completely committed to?  Something I wasn’t sure about?”

“I think you’re idealistic,” Grantaire answers simply, and Enjolras feels the familiar flare of annoyance she once felt when they first met and Grantaire spent most of her time showing up to Spirit Week meetings drunk and aggressively negative.  “And I think you like to fix things.”

“Fix things?” she parrots.

“And I’m a thing that’s been fixed.  Conquered and made to look like something you don’t want to shove under the rug in the living room anymore.”

“That isn’t true-”

“So worship is all I have left.  Servitude.  Gratitude.  Platitude.”

It sounds very similar to her drunken ramblings and Enjolras hates it, feels a fire in her gut that isn’t quite as exciting as it normally is.

“I’m not looking to be worshipped.  Unless I’m worshipping in return.”

The resulting laugh is an ugly noise.

Enjolras hits the sand beside her.  There’s a disappointing lack of sound and impact.  “You should be proud.  That you came out on top.  That you’re still fighting.  You’re winning.”

“Winning what?” Grantaire asks.  “What’s left?”  Her tone takes on that mocking edge again when she adds, “What happens after the revolution?”

“You  _live_ ,” Enjolras exclaims, flames in her eyes.  “You live and you take the barricades down.”

“ _There’s nothing behind them_ ,” Grantaire practically growls, dark eyes flashing, wide and animalistic.  It’s another thing they’ve always known but never verbally acknowledged and Enjolras is struck by how physical the words are, hovering in the air heavy and cold, and yet she still can’t fire at them and shoot them down.

“That isn’t true.”

“Oh, come on.  Even you can find one thing you can’t bring yourself to believe in,” Grantaire says, pulling her knees up to her chest, her heels dragging through the sand.  There’s sand in the cuffs of her jeans, new one without holes that she bought on the pre-spring break shopping trip after Courfeyrac announced, “That’s one of the two cardinal rules of Alpha Beta Chi!  We are strong women.  And we do not NOT buy pants that make our butts look that fine.”  It had seemed so silly at the time, but the clean crisp clothes mean so much to Enjolras in that moment.

“ _It isn’t you_!”  Grantaire opens her mouth to argue, but Enjolras surges forward.  “No!  It’s not.  It was you, once.  But not after… not anymore.  I watched you recover.  I watched you shake in the cab on the way to your first group therapy session.  I watched you hold the trash can while Joly swept your room for cigarettes and flasks.  I watched you go back to that tiny studio painting and sit on the floor and find your inspiration again.  I walked in and found you with three different paint brushes between your teeth because you couldn’t be bothered to clean them in between strokes.  So don’t you dare tell me there’s nothing there, because I refuse to sit here and listen to someone who claims to worship me lie to my face like I’m an idiot, like I’m completely ignorant to all the-”

It’s the first time Grantaire has ever kissed her, really.  Enjolras has kissed her, of course, but she’s always initiating, always coaxing and reassuring, trying to draw the other girl out and into the present.  Grantaire doesn’t take as a rule, so Enjolras is struck dumb for a moment until she feels a hand card into her hair and then she tips her head sideways and returns the gestures just as gently.

Grantaire pulls away first as well, leaving Enjolras leaning forward a bit to try to bring her back.  But the other girls just folds her hands in her lap and stares down at them, fidgeting a little awkwardly.

“Shut up,” she asks, and she sounds tired but there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips.  The moment seems to melt away like seafoam.

Enjolras scowls.  “This conversation isn’t over.”

Grantaire rolls her eyes again and leans back on her hands.  “It’s never over with you.  You’re like the human embodiment of a battering ram.”

The dark haired girl looks over just in time to see Enjolras’ mouth fall open, completely offended, and laughter skitters across the sand as she falls backwards into the sand and breaks into giggles, her arms wrapped around her stomach.

Enjolras opens her mouth to argue further, but the pure joy in the guffaws coming from her friend stays the battle in her and her shoulders drop in defeat, the corners of her lips fighting to turn up.  She saves her speech and grabs a handful of sand to shove down Grantaire’s shirt.


End file.
